Let The Flames Begin
by BulletsCoffeeFaith
Summary: "This is, how we'll dance when/When they try to take us down/This is what we'll be, oh, glory..." He's never been the type to seek revenge, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Songfic. Angsty!Ben.


**Let The Flames Begin**

* * *

Nothing is ever as it seems.

I had to learn that the hard way.

* * *

_What a shame, we all became_

_Such fragile, broken things_

_The memory remains_

_Just a tiny spark_

* * *

I still remember the day they came for me – how could I ever forget? It was the day they changed my life forever. Ruined it. Stole it away from me. It's as clear as anything has ever been. And it's always there in the back of my mind, running on a continuous loop, driving every emotion but hatred straight out of my head.

A loud bang that hadn't come from our video game echoed throughout the house; somebody was breaking down the door. My friend and I were in his house, alone. Cowardly as I was, my first thought wasn't to fight the intruder off, but to hide in the closet somewhere and call the police.

It didn't take us but thirty seconds to realize that it wouldn't have worked. All the lights went out. Our game system turned itself off. Even my cell phone died in my pocket, which was strange. I could have sworn I'd charged it before leaving the house.

And we weren't the only ones. Outside the window, every house on the street appeared to be having the same problem.

Then the screams began.

The next half hour was a blur of pure terror and pain. I thrashed and screamed and cried as the creatures took hold of me, a slimy claw clamping down over my mouth to silence the pleas for help. I knew nobody would save me. Anybody who might have heard me would be too scared for their own life to aid the scrawny, defenseless teenager that the big green monster had captured.

The harnessing facility was dark and hot, and I was terrified to think it might have been the place where I would spend my last few moments on earth. If I was going to die, I wanted my family to be there. I didn't want to be alone. I fought wildly against the restraints that held me in, barely flinching as strong limbs came down, trying to hold me still. My ankles and wrists were raw and bleeding, my voice hoarse from screaming. None of it could match up.

It wasn't a fraction of the pain I felt as the worm-like alien plunged itself deep into my spine.

* * *

_I gave it all my oxygen_

_To let the flames begin..._

_To let the flames begin..._

_Oh, glory...oh, glory_

* * *

Rescue was the last thing I'd expected after being harnessed.

How could I have anticipated it? My father was a history professor. My mother was a house wife. My two brothers and my friends were all still just kids themselves. Who would rescue me? A stranger who had no right to care what happened to me anyways?

After six months, my time for rescue was far past. The skitters thought I was theirs forever. And I did, too.

Remembering what life was like wearing a harness is difficult, like squinting through muddy water, or trying to recall a dream you had when you were little. But I do remember the night of the surgery. I was confused and frightened. These humans were just now deciding that they wanted me back? What were they going to do? Torture me? Hold me for ransom?

Drugged and almost completely unconscious, I felt a vague sense of panic as I heard what they were saying, their plans to rip the harness from my spine, and all of my human memories came flooding back. I didn't _want _my human memories. I wanted my skitter to be alive and well again, not lying dead on that cold floor where we'd abandoned his body.

And then the pain came as the weight of the harness was removed, hitting me in large, agonizing waves. I wanted to scream and cry and kick them away, the same way I had in the harnessing facility, but I couldn't move my limbs or even my eyelids. I couldn't move at all. If they'd rescued me, if they thought that by stealing me back again they were helping, then why put me through such horrible pain? What had I done to deserve it?

My father's voice, heartbreaking and familiar, tried to sooth me. I took refuge in the comfort he was trying so hard to provide; his hand combing through my dirt-caked hair, the words he spoke, telling me I was safe and healthy and that everything was going to be okay, because he was there and he loved me.

Nothing was ever okay again after that night.

* * *

_This is, how we'll dance when_

_When they try to take us down_

_This is what we'll be_

_Oh, glory..._

* * *

To be told that my mother was dead had been pure agony.

She'd always been there for me. When Hal called me names, or I came home from school with a black eye, she always knew how to make me feel better. She would tell me how wonderful she thought I was and what a great, kindhearted man I was going to become one day, and that she would be able to say Ben Edward Mason was _her _son.

Now, when I needed her the most, she wasn't there to sooth all my fears and worries and tell me how much she loved me. When I'd asked, ten minutes or so after waking from my operation, where my mother was, all three of them went instantly rigid. Hal dragged a protesting Matt out into the hall as my father began running his hand through my hair. And I knew. I knew right then and there. I was in tears, sitting up on the medical bed and throwing myself into my father's arms before Hal and Matt could even reach the door. I sobbed for what felt like hours, crushed.

_Your mom...Ben, kiddo...they got her...she's gone..._

The words echoed in my head weeks later as Weaver explained to my brother and I why our father hadn't come back with him. Hal was the one to hold me through the tragedy this time as I cried again.

I remember waking up the next day feeling furious. I wanted to fight. I wanted to pick up a gun and kill the bastards, every last one of them. I didn't know whether or not my father would ever come back. He'd walked onto that ship, and possibly straight to his death, to ensure my safety. I wasn't going to let all of his efforts to keep me alive go to waste.

* * *

_Somewhere weakness is our strength_

_And I'll die searching for it_

_I can't let myself regret_

_Such selfishness_

* * *

I'd changed so much.

Even I couldn't turn a blind eye to my rough transformation. Yes, I became physically capable, more so than anybody else in the Second Mass. But at what price? At the cost of losing my father, most likely forever, and becoming a different person? Would Hal rather have extra back-up on a food run or another innocent little brother to care for and protect?

Part of me knew that change was essential, especially when our world itself had moved and shifted so drastically against our own hopes, prayers and plans. And yet, I wish I hadn't turned into what I did. If I could have been a geeky bookworm and a strong fighter at the same time, that's the personality I would have chosen. Change and war require sacrifice from everybody involved, whether or not they're ready or willing. I wasn't ready to grow up when they took me, and I sure as hell wasn't willing to become a spike-studded freak, but it happened anyway. I couldn't prevent it and I couldn't stop it. So I went with it instead. What else could I have done? I couldn't just give up on my own life; people were counting on me.

I've always wondered what my father must have thought of me when he returned. His middle son, one of the children he'd sheltered so carefully, had grown up and moved on to become a soldier for the resistance. Not only a soldier, but a hostile one at that. He must have been disappointed. The spikes on my spine had grown and mutated, creating metal-ridden dry patches all over my back. I was becoming more and more of a freak with every passing moment.

I wished I could stop it, but I couldn't. So I used it to my advantage instead. I accepted it.

* * *

_My pain and all the trouble caused_

_No matter how long_

_I believe that there is hope_

_Buried beneath it all and..._

_Hiding beneath it all and..._

_Growing beneath it all and_

* * *

Shooting my own father, accidental but horrifying, left it's mark on me. I knew I was a bad person, that the harness had created a monster out of me, and that nobody in the Second Mass trusted or liked me in the slightest. This, however, was a new low. It was on that day that I realized what a danger I was to my friends and family. I was going to get us all killed eventually, and I knew it. It was the day I began to contemplate leaving; and could you blame me?

Jimmy's death did nothing to help my sudden bouts of anger and depression, or minimize all the prejudice held against me in the Second Mass. Breaking down in front of Weaver the way I did was childish and wrong, but I couldn't help it. It was my fault Jimmy Boland was dead and we both knew it, though Weaver would never admit it to my face.

Looking back on all the pain and suffering I'd either caused or helped to create, it wasn't too difficult accepting that it was time to move on. Sure, my family would miss me – but in all honesty, they had a better chance of survival without me there to slow them down. Call me selfish or tell me it was a bad choice. My help was needed elsewhere. It was better and safer for everyone.

If I could face up and admit it, my loved ones could, too. They needed to start looking out for themselves instead of me. In the end, the three of them were the only thing I bothered to live for.

* * *

_This is, how we'll dance when_

_When they try to take us down_

_This is how we'll sing it..._

_This is, how we'll stand when_

_When they burn our houses down_

_This is what we'll be, oh, glory..._

* * *

I loved, more than anything, being with the rebels and the de-harnessed kids. I loved how I felt so safe and protected. I wasn't looking out for myself all the time; somebody else cared, always had my back. I didn't have to ask for comfort or company. If I was upset, there was no hiding it, for everybody else could feel it, too. They knew immediately if I needed something. And vice versa.

Therefore, it was no surprise when I woke from a nightmare my first night away from the Second Mass, curled comfortably between two of RedEye's strong claws in the equivalent to a human embrace. Had it been my father, the one I missed so horribly that I would dream of his possible death, I would have been horrified to feel tears on my face. But RedEye understood. He understood because he went through the same thing when he first began to gain control of himself, when he defeated the effects of the harness and ran off on his own. He was scared to death that they would find him, and kill him as punishment for being so rebellious.

In a way, the rebels were – to me, at least – better versions of humans. They loved and cared for us, the other de-harnessed kids and myself. Their forms of comfort and soothing bad dreams were ten times as effective; it was not only calming physical touch, but through mental connections. It made you feel as though all of the troubles and problems you'd ever faced in your life could melt away.

It made me guilty, discovering that I felt more at home in RedEye's company than my own family's. But what was I supposed to do? Lie to myself, say I hated them, and run off to Charleston? I had a blind trust in RedEye. He was the only one I could rely on. My father and brother were there for me, yes, but how many times had they let me down?

RedEye never did. RedEye never _could_.

Maybe that's why his death hit me so hard.

I felt like I was losing my best friend again – and I was. A different best friend, but a friend nonetheless.

It looked like I was back to watching out for myself again.

And waiting.

Waiting to kill the other overlord, waiting to win this war once and for all, because my bloodthirsty need for revenge would never be quenched otherwise.

It was time to play the waiting game.

* * *

_Reaching as I sink down into light..._

_Reaching as I sink down into light..._

* * *

The good news is, I love games.

The bad news? I've never been very good at waiting my turn.

* * *

_This is, how we'll dance when_

_When they try to take us down_

_This is how we'll sing it..._

_This is, how we'll stand when_

_When they burn our houses down_

_This is what we'll be, oh, glory..._

* * *

**This songfic is dedicated to everybody who's ever been bullied, abused, pushed around or stepped on. For everybody who has Tourettes or other tic disorders, OCD or other anxiety disorders, Autism, Dyslexia or other learning disabilities, or who is picked on for their looks, weight, or anything else. Never let anybody walk all over you. _This is how we'll dance when they try to take us down, this is how we'll stand when they burn our houses down_. I was born with Tourettes and OCD, and in the past I struggled with bulimia eating disorder. Everybody thinks Tourettes is just shouting out swear words, but it's not, it's uncontrollable movements, and I was bullied for that. Everybody thinks OCD is simply a freak who cries over germs, but it's not, and people teased me for that. People called me fat and pushed me to the point where I felt like I needed to throw up everything I ate. But I got through it, didn't I? I'm still here. You can do it it, too, trust me. You're stronger than you think.**


End file.
